Shadows of what-ifs
by Misila
Summary: Dazai found the chimera his heart ached for trapped behind a glass. [odazai]


This fic was written for the odazai week. It contains _Harry Potter_ elements- but nothing very intrincate.

* * *

 ** _Shadows of what-ifs_**

.

A thread snapping is a metaphor commonly used to represent death.

Whether or not it had some truth behind, Dazai didn't know. He had tried to cut his own so many times he had lost count. Yet he never fell into the dark abyss that had been calling him for so long it felt like an old friend, one he was unable to ignore.

There was always something –instinct, perhaps, a primal will to live his mind couldn't overcome– that strengthened the cord; and there was no gun, river or drug lethal enough to cut it once and for all.

 _(oh, but it's not_ instinct _)_

He would curl up into himself afterwards, throat burning in frustration and tears prickling behind his eyelids in shame, wanting to set the heavy matchbox in his pocket on fire because sometimes he hated its owner so much it hurt.

 _(but it's not him the one you hate, is it?)_

He had made a promise. He had committed to doing something he didn't know the first thing about, to leave the world he was so comfortable in to honour his friend's last wish. And somewhere along the way he had realised _saving people_ meant _not dying_ – too late.

Perhaps _he_ had known it the very moment the words left his lips, as he bled out in Dazai's arms.

 _(and yet, how comes it's_ you _the one people call a demon?)_

He was so, so tired.

Yet his hand always drew back just centimetres away from his goal, pulled at by a guilt that stopped him from breathing without that weight on his chest and a promise that chained his drained soul to this world he didn't have a single reason to exist in.

.

Twilight breeze hissed through damp hair, trembling steps heavy like lead as they dragged him out of the river. Teeth chattered, an expectant drumroll interrupted by painful coughing as thin arms hugged their owner; yet he didn't seem bothered by it, chestnut eyes scanning the riverbank.

Because today, Odasaku's last words weren't the reason he had panicked when water had started filling his lungs.

Dazai's gaze landed on the bridge that had caught his attention the very second he had jumped off the one upstream. Specifically, he scrutinised the space below, already engulfed in shadows; he was sure he hadn't imagined the golden glint as the dying sunlight brushed it.

He made his way towards that spot as the sun hid behind tall buildings, shivering more violently; he had already spat all the water in his lungs, but his throat burnt with every intake of increasingly colder air. Falling ill was the last of his concerns, though, when he reached his goal.

By then, the sky was dark, only three shy stars visible above Yokohama. Streetlamps and passing cars weren't enough to illuminate the discovery, but Dazai could make out its shape as he stood before it.

A disappointed frown knitted his eyebrows together; Dazai reached out to touch the cool, smooth surface of what looked like a mirror with his fingertips, angry with himself for letting such a mundane item interrupt his suicide attempt.

 _(as if you would have killed yourself otherwise)_

But, despite his annoyance, despite the cold seeping into his bones and the fever he suspected was behind his worsening headache, the question of _why_ there was a standing mirror hidden under a bridge piqued his interest.

Dazai searched in the pocket of his trench coat and took out the little plastic bag he had used to protect what was probably his most treasured possession from the water. His hands were almost dry now, though, so there was no risk of damaging the matchbox; Dazai took it out and fished a match, struck it to light a flame and held it high to illuminate the place a bit.

His appearance was truly pitiful, he mused when he saw the familiar image staring right back at him, wet hair clinging to his skull and drenched clothes making him look like a lost kid; he let his gaze wander over the intricate designs of the golden frame, wanting to find something interesting enough to make up for the heavy cold hugging his chest. He thought there were some words engraved, but a glimpse of red on the smooth surface caught his attention before he could examine them.

He almost dropped the match, breathing hitching in his throat, air stuck in place by pure shock.

Dazai glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening when he found nobody with him. He looked in the mirror again, lips pressed into a thin line, wishing it had been but his imagination.

But Odasaku was still there, standing next to Dazai's reflection, trapped behind the glass. There was a small smile on his lips, a warm light in his blue eyes as he stared at his friend, hands in the pockets of his trousers.

Dazai's fingers curled tighter around the matchbox; in contrast, his legs felt wobbly when he took a small step towards the mirror and raised his hand again, extending only his index so as not to drop the item and letting out a disappointed, almost childish whine when he touched cold glass instead of Odasaku's shoulder.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He had heard of those kind of artefacts before, of course –things that nobody quite knew where they had come from, impervious to the logic abilities were ruled by–; but that mirror… what was its purpose? Did it just show dead people? Or maybe memories?

 _(and why him?)_

Despite being tired, his curiosity was stronger. Hazy eyes looked up to the golden frame again, narrowed to read the letters written on it.

 **Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi**

It was ridiculously easy, even though it was English. A backwards sentence, such a simple trick it wasn't even worthy of being called a riddle.

 _I show not your face, but your heart's desire._

Dazai frowned, looked at Odasaku again.

"My heart's desire, huh?"

His friend shrugged, not losing his smile. As if saying _don't ask me, I don't know either_.

Dazai couldn't help a smile of his own, even though he knew that Odasaku was but a mirage; the real one had been buried in a hill by the coast, close to the ocean he had dreamt of while living.

That mirror was useless.

He blew the match out, but Odasaku's image was still carved into his retinas. His lips trembled as he closed his eyes, blocking out the silhouette of the mirror.

"You know, Odasaku," he whispered, even though he knew he was talking to nobody, "I got a new job last month."

.

Dazai hadn't really planned to go back.

But he hadn't planned not to, either. He was bedridden for the next two days, most of his lucid thoughts directed to curse himself for disregarding the consequences of throwing himself into the river when the weather was getting cold; Kunikida showed up the first evening and yelled at him for skipping work and ignoring his phone, then tidied the tiny apartment up, made soup and yelled a bit more (something about how Dazai had to get better soon and stop slacking off) before leaving.

So, naturally, Dazai wasn't too eager to go to work when his fever went down.

He wore more layers than usual under his shirt, trench coat buttoned up and throat, mouth and nose sheltered from the cold behind a black scarf. He didn't find his gloves (probably a direct consequence of allowing Kunikida handle his things), so he shoved his hands in his pockets after stepping outside, even though it wasn't that cold; he just didn't want to get worse again.

Dying of pneumonia was far from painless.

Dazai only wanted to stretch his legs a little; after not having been able to go out for two days, feeling the sun on his skin, the gentle bite of the wind on his face, looked like a good idea. He didn't pay attention to where his steps took him, too busy fiddling with the matchbox inside his pocket. It had been two years since he picked up that habit, but it still worked to calm him down.

There was a resignation of sorts when he found himself on the bridge under which he knew the mirror was. As if he had been trying to ignore the part of him that yearned for his lost friend's company, only to silently give up so his inner tantrum stopped.

Dazai wasn't surprised to be back. He had known he would since the night he had seen the mirror for the first time.

Odasaku was there, following Dazai's movements with his blue gaze as he stepped up to stand right before the mirror. The tired lines around his eyes that had become part of him after Ango was kidnapped by Mimic, the ones engraved to Dazai's memory whenever he thought about his friend after leaving the Mafia, weren't there anymore; he looked relaxed, almost younger, and amused for some reason, the way he used to when Dazai drank more than he should and teased Ango because it was the easiest way to make the three of them laugh.

And he wasn't the only one. Dazai wondered wether he had been too tired to notice the first time, but now he raised his eyebrows when he spotted five children, staring up at him the same mixture of wonder and caution they had had during their first meeting, half hiding behind Odasaku.

Kousuke, Katsumi, Yuu, Shinji and Sakura. Dazai had truly enjoyed playing with them the few occasions they had been together; they reminded him of an innocence he had never really got to enjoy.

"Hello, you too," he whispered.

He wondered whether Odasaku was happy because he was there, or simply because of those children.

Then he shook his head. That wasn't Odasaku, and those weren't the orphans he had taken care of. They were but an illusion and that mirror was only a cruel invention.

And yet Dazai couldn't tear his gaze off it, because logic didn't stop him from missing Odasaku, from wishing he were there and wanting to yell at his friend for making him _live_ in a world he was sick of. Because he already loathed that mirror, but staring into it was the closest to Odasaku he could get without breaking his promise.

He sat down on the ground, pulled his knees up and hugged his legs. To his surprise Odasaku and the children mimicked him; if he ignored his own reflection, he could pretend they were really sitting before him.

"Do you…" he started. "Can you speak?" Odasaku blinked, tilted his head to the side. Dazai let out a sigh. "That would have been too convenient, right?" he muttered. He raised his head to read the inscription on the frame again. "At least I get to see you."

He didn't understand. There were many things he wanted to know about that mirror, and staring at his dead friend would lead him nowhere.

Dazai rested his chin between his knees.

"I'm helping people now," he whispered, so quietly probably not even the mirror heard it.

But it was alright–– as long as Dazai knew, he could indulge in that illusion, couldn't he? There was nothing wrong with pretending his friend was still there, in wanting to believe that Odasaku could listen to him for a little while.

"It's what you wanted me to do, isn't it?"

Odasaku's smile grew a bit. Dazai nibbled at his lower lip.

"Are you happy now?"

Of course, there was no answer.

Dazai didn't mind. Odasaku was there, if only trapped inside a mirror.

.

There were no answers.

Not that Dazai looked for them with actual curiosity. His private research about the foreign mirror was but an excuse to force himself to go to work when all he wanted was spending time with Odasaku under that bridge, his agonising sanity's last attempt to get him out of the little bubble where he could pretend his friend was still there.

He would leave earlier and ignore Kunikida's reprimands, let his feet guide him to the mirror with growing desperation, almost tripping over his own steps when the bridge entered his field of view. He would sit before the polished glass for hours, tell Odasaku and the children about his day, about many days since he had left the Mafia, only to clench his fists when his friend never answered.

But it didn't matter. Not as long as he could see Odasaku sitting right beside his reflection, listening to him and pretending to be still alive. The pang of pain–– loneliness, fear, _guilt_ –– was easy to ignore if he thought about the possibility of his words somehow reaching his friend through the polished glass.

Of Odasaku knowing, for sure, what Dazai struggled every day with and maybe, maybe, maybe feeling even a bit proud of him, wherever he was.

He didn't know how long he had known about the mirror for when he spent the whole night before it for the first time. He wasn't really aware of how late it was, too busy talking to an infuriatingly indifferent Odasaku; he didn't understand why the mirror didn't give him what he yearned for. If it showed Dazai's wishes, why couldn't it grant such a simple one? All he asked for was the sound of his voice; even a change in Odasaku's calm expression would be enough for Dazai to get by. _Anything_ so he knew his friend was actually listening to him.

He fell asleep shortly before dawn; his phone ringtone awakened him at noon, Kunikida's endless grumbling reminding him of the case they had yet to solve.

Dazai's stomach dropped as he hung up and stood up; procrastinating paperwork was one thing, but ignoring the actual job he had joined the Agency for left a bitter taste in his mouth. As if attracted by a magnet, his gaze drifted towards the mirror, part of him still foolishly hoping Odasaku said something.

His eyes widened, though, when he spotted a different expression on his friend's face for the first time.

There was a barely noticeable frown between his eyebrows; Dazai's breathing hitched in his throat when he noticed the dullness taking over the formerly bright blue, when he saw the corners of Odasaku's lips slightly turned downwards.

"I––" he started. He swallowed down. "I'm sorry I overslept." Odasaku didn't move, his expression severe. "I'll–– I'll leave now… See you tonight."

When Dazai came back, Odasaku looked as disappointed as before.

It didn't change even after Dazai told him Kunikida and he had solved the case and arrested the right people. Odasaku still sat down in front of him; but now his gaze was listless, accusatory. It almost pushed Dazai away; he hated that expression, like that of a father lecturing a disobedient child, hated how it was directed solely at him.

Hated that the gentle smile wouldn't come back.

.

He tried, though. He kept going to the mirror every day after work, staying there until late, usually with no more light than the trembling flame of a candle, would keep talking even after the fire was consumed. He often forgot about his own needs, pushing them aside until someone at the Agency –usually Yosano– commented on his pallor and his distraught gaze and dragged him to the bar to force him to eat something; Ranpo even offered him one of his snacks once.

But Dazai wasn't hungry, even though Odasaku's disappointment was slowly eating away at whatever was left of his sanity. He was tired, was ashamed, was _resentful_ because being late to work had been only a mistake and his friend was truly cruel if he let that slip weigh more than the fact that Dazai had radically changed his way of life for a promise that lately felt more like a chain stopping him from leaving the world once and for all.

"Hey, Dazai." Dazai pressed his forehead harder against his desk, trying to ignore the impending headache. "Dazai! Are you going to spend the whole day there?"

Dazai grunted, slowly raised his head and tried not to glare at Kunikida. "Unless the building crumbles down, I'd like to, yes," he muttered. "Actually, I'd also consider staying if that were to happen," he added, like an afterthought.

"No, you aren't," Kunikida replied, "until we talk to the witnesses of the kidnappings."

 _What was the point of the question, then?_ Dazai wanted to ask. He had slept less than eight hours throughout the last week.

He dragged his feet behind Kunikida, though, forced himself to pay attention to the case he had barely thought about. He found inconsistencies in the witnesses' explanations, but couldn't bring himself to organise his thoughts enough to tell Kunikida. His partner was already explaining his own deductions as they walked toward where the latest kidnapping had taken place, though, Dazai barely able to nod at the points he had deducted himself.

His gaze drifted away from the street, though, when they reached the bridge from which he had seen the mirror for the first time. He frowned when he spotted several people gathered where the artefact stood, though, tired steps coming to a halt.

His sluggish, sleep deprived brain lit up with alarm. There was no doubt about what had caught those people's interest; he knew the mirror wasn't _his_ , but his heart still leapt to his throat at the possibility of them taking it with them.

"Dazai?" Kunikida had stopped too, voice uncharacteristically thick with something awfully similar to concern.

"I have something to do," Dazai heard himself say, not tearing his gaze off those people. "I'll be in the Agency in half an hour, so…"

"If you are going to try to drown himself again, Dazai, I swear––"

"I'm not." Dazai placed a hand on the railing, fingers curling around the cold bar. "Not today," he added, more quietly.

He heard Kunikida's fading steps, wishing his partner left faster so he could rush to the mirror and know what was happening, but turned his head when Kunikida stopped again, couldn't help but glare at that serious expression.

"Uh… Are you alright?"

Be it sleep deprivation, be it his obsession with the mirror; something stopped the instinctive, sarcastic comment itching in his throat.

So he only nodded.

Kunikida nodded too. And turned around, and left.

Thus the charade ended.

.

Even as he approached the mirror at a quick pace, Dazai didn't think he could convince the ten people gathered there to leave it there.

It wasn't as if it took him entirely by surprise. Even though he hadn't seen anyone else close to the mirror throughout the weeks he had spent there, such a peculiar item was bound to catch the Special Ability Department's attention.

Deep down, he had known something like this would happen.

It didn't make the anxiety coiling around his lungs, squeezing the air out of them, any more bearable.

He hurried even more, his rhythm somewhere between a quick march and a slow gallop.

Dazai still remembered the last time he, Odasaku and Ango had been together at the _Lupin_ , Ango's suggestion resounding in his ears when he was too tired to hate him; back then he had thought of Ango's mere presence there as a foolish stunt on his former friend's behalf, of his wish to drink together again as a way to mock them after his betrayal.

But now Dazai understood him. A farewell would change nothing, but it meant closure.

None of the agents said anything to Dazai as he approached; the ones who knew who he was told the youngest ones about him in quiet whispers, and he easily walked among them until he stopped by the three people examining the mirror from up close, hands curling into fists inside the pockets of his trench coat to stop himself from pushing them aside.

"Dazai-kun?"

An instinctive displeased expression made its way to Dazai's face. He looked to his side, too tired to conceal the irrational hatred darkening his gaze as it fixed on Ango.

"You knew about the mirror?" the man continued, pushing his glasses up his nose, holding a stack of documents against his chest.

"Looks like I did." Dazai turned to face him, barely aware the interrupted conversations between the other agents continued around them. "What is it doing in a place like this?"

"That's classified information, I'm afraid," Ango replied. "I'm more interested in how _you_ learnt about it."

Dazai smiled. The gesture pulled at his chapped lips, blood trickling from the cracks; Ango didn't move.

"I just happened to see it and it caught my attention." And it was actually true. "Why would anyone place such a strange artefact under a bridge?"

Ango let out a tired sigh.

"That, we don't know either," he muttered. "The last report about it dates from three years ago– and it happened in the United Kingdom."

"So you'll give it back?"

"That's not for me to decide." Ango's gaze drifted from Dazai, probably fixing on the mirror behind him. "I've been ordered to take it somewhere nobody finds it, for now." He took several steps towards it, transfixed by whatever the glass reflected for him; Dazai turned around. The three men had stepped aside, yet Ango didn't get too close. "To think there's such a dangerous thing here, where anyone could see it…"

"Dangerous?" Dazai tilted his head. "It only shows what you want."

Ango looked at him, a serious frown between his eyebrows.

"You're being purposefully obnoxious," he stated. "The mirror shows someone's deepest desire; many people have withered before it, too focused on the fantasy their reflection showed to keep on living, or lost their sanity at the impossibility to get what they saw… and I guess you are the first type."

Dazai ground his teeth together, but took a step to look in the mirror too.

His eyes widened when he saw Odasaku's smile was back; he stood behind the glass, between Ango and Dazai, five children surrounding him. He didn't look just calm, now– he looked _happy_. And when the breeze tangled with the only two alive people's hair, red locks danced with the wind too; for the first time Dazai looked at the landscape behind his friend.

Ango's voice was quiet when he spoke again:

"Hey, Dazai-kun, what do you see?"

A sad smile turned the corners of Dazai's lips upwards.

"The ocean."

Ango raised a sceptic eyebrow, but after some seconds he looked down.

"And you?"

The words had already left his lips when Dazai wanted to change his mind. He glanced one last time at Odasaku, turned around again. He wasn't interested in Ango's answer.

"A new camera."

Dazai breathed out slowly as he took the first step to leave. Among the amalgam of feelings scratching his worn out soul, the easiest one to act on would always be hate. Inertia carried him further away, a promise and a deal guiding him back to the Agency building.

Ango didn't say goodbye.

Neither did Dazai.

Exhaustion wasn't the only added weight his feet had to carry. Dazai fiddled with Odasaku's matchbox as he walked, air coming into his lungs easier than he would have thought only a few hours before.

 _(because now you know_

 _that in reality, you don't wish for him to be back,_

 _but for him to be happy)_

* * *

Thoughts? Rocks?


End file.
